


Games Hyruleans Play

by kithofthedragon91 (The_Lynel_Reborn), The_Lynel_Reborn, urbosas_fury_is_ready_17 (The_Lynel_Reborn)



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Fi and Ghirahim-unrequited love, I am the Link/Zora Princess shipper. Watch me go., Revali will kill Link if he can, as a fandom I say we need this, ooh Revali love interest?, unrequited ghirafi, watch Revali get uppity, zelda hunger games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26499079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lynel_Reborn/pseuds/kithofthedragon91, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lynel_Reborn/pseuds/The_Lynel_Reborn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lynel_Reborn/pseuds/urbosas_fury_is_ready_17
Summary: Twenty-four Hyruleans are pitted against one another in a Hunger Games-style battle.
Relationships: Fi/Ghirahim (Legend of Zelda), Link/Ruto (Legend of Zelda), Revali/Marin (Legend of Zelda)
Kudos: 9





	1. The Reaping Part One-District One

District One

Link jogged to the Reaping. He could have walked; but he needed the exercise.  
An average person would think Link was about as fit as anyone could get without being a ball of muscles. He was short, yes, but well-built; most of his body mass was thick tendons. Link had been training with the sword since he was seven, and in those ten years he had been incessantly drilled with swords and bows, and even a little bit with spears. He was not as comfortable with spears, but it was the Career trainers’ belief that versatility was better than utter mastery.  
That being said, Link was a verifiable master of several areas-he could do various gymnastics moves (somersaults, backflips) with great ease, he could rival any of the other Careers in swordfighting skills, and he was an excellent tracker. Another thing that the trainers always remarked upon-he never gabbed his head off when he was supposed to be working. Along with his mad skills, he was silent. Around the training center, at least. Outside, off hours, all bets were off and Link would usually swear up a storm at stubbing his toe(which happened more often than you’d think).  
Link was the younger brother of Sky Knighthorn, the well-known victor a few years back, who was well known for his soft image and harsh archery (though he couldn’t get his hands on a bow at all for the first two weeks of the Games), and had earned a particuarly harsh reputation in District Eleven, whose two tributes that year had both been brutally slaughtered.  
Link, however, was tired of living in Sky’s shadow. He had trained; indeed, he had trained so hard that it almost felt as if he had lost seven years of his life to a coma. Of course, this wasn’t true, merely what he thought sometimes.  
Link jogged into the seveteen-year-olds pen, and immediately recieved a stare from his best ‘friend’ (Careers didn’t have actual friends, just sparring partners) Rusl, who stood about six inches above Link’s honey-blonde locks.  
“I know you’re excited about volunteering, but can you show some somberness?” Link scowled up into Rusl’s face before he could continue. “I know it’s exciting, but we’re expected to show remorse for the little kids in the other districts.”  
Link set his face straight. The only other district he cared about was Four, home to…He shook his head to clear the thought, then solemnly nodded to Rusl. Now was not the time to be thinking about his sweetheart.  
Rusl stared at Link. “Thinking about Ruto?”  
Link mentally scolded himself, and kept a straight face. “Maybe.”  
They were cut off from the awkward (for Rusl) topic of Link’s on-again-off-again girlfriend by the sound of trumpets blaring the anthem on high.  
Through the stage curtains stepped a man in the peak of extravagance, wearing the most absurd green silk one-piece suit that clung far too much to his chubby form, with a strange green tube strapped around his chin and sticking up into the air. His essence had a manic quality to it, and he was quite…frightening, to say the least.  
“Hey, Link,” one of the girls across the walk called, “isn’t his hat a little like the one you wear when you’re drilling?”  
Keep stoic. Don’t lose your cool. Not at the Reaping.  
“Kooloo-limpah!” The man squealed, and did a little dance where all of District One saw far too much of his behind. His golden clock necklace bounced on his ample front-fat, and Link let himself shudder. No matter how many times he saw the man, the district’s escort Tingle was always a little…unpleasant to watch.  
“Ladieees first!” He let out a massive squeal that sounded(to Link, at least) like a pig being electrocuted, and dipped his hand into a blue-stained glass globe. He fished around, made a big show of it, as well as his pudgy belly, which he flapped one too many times. Granted, once would have been too much.  
The name is hardly spoken before a well-built, tanned young woman ran out from the bank of sixteen-year-olds.  
“My name is Riju Zunzo, and I volunteer as tribute,” she says slightly breathlessly, giving the crowd a defiant stare in case anyone else wanted to deny her the privilege. She backed up on the stage, stiletto heels clicking on the marble. Her long red braid cascading down her back swished slightly back and forth as she turned her head to regard the audience with a haughty gaze.  
Link bunched his muscles, preparing to pounce. His heart raced, thudding against the walls of his ribcage; his stomach churned like a tidal wave in equal parts excitement and sheer panic. Link suddenly remembered his breakfast oatmeal with a stomach lurch. He promised himself he wouldn’t throw up. Not in front of all these people, all these cameras, all these Careers. He would not disgrace the Knighthorn family name.  
Link didn’t even hear the name called by the chubby faerie. He just walked out into the main aisle, on legs that felt like chuchu jelly. I will not be a coward. Careers do it every year. Link would never, ever admit it to anyone, but he was scared. Terrified, even. He walked forward towards the stage, raising his hand in the air-the universal sign for I volunteer as tribute. Each step made his legs feel more and more leaden, his heart pounding frantically to escape the confines of his ribcage-  
Somehow, Link made it up the stairs to the stage. Somehow, he stood between Riju and Tingle. Somehow, he said “My name is Link-Time Knighthorn and I volunteer as tribute.” Somehow, he kept an expression of plate armour on his face, even as the crowd roared at seeing their favourite victor’s younger brother take on the family mantle.

Link walked into the small room at the back of the stage, the one for family and friends to talk with the tributes one last time. He felt his legs jiggle like a gel, then give out as he came to his knees on the middle of the floor.  
“Little brother, why are you on your knees? Scared of the big bad Zora boy from Four?”  
Sky Knighthorn stood in the doorway, casting a shadow over Link’s quivering body.  
“My oatmeal was a little sour,” Link spat out at him, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to emphasize the point. This wasn’t an entire lie; the oatmeal was certainly sour now, the lump swelling in his throat. I will not throw up. Not in front of Sky.  
“You’ll win a bucketload of sponsors, little brother. Especially with the Knighthorn name.”  
“That’s good.” Link tried to keep his stoic facade, tried desperately to force his oatmeal down. Damn it, for Din’s sake don’t throw up!  
Sky walked in front of Link. “Don’t tell me you’re nervous to go into the Games, little brother. You’ve trained for them your whole life.”  
Bloody Din, don’t let me throw up in front of Sky. His stomach did a large somersault, and he desperately tried to ignore it. “Yep, really great to finally bring myself honour.” Link cracked a weak smile, ignoring the bile rising in his throat. No, attempting to ignore it; the bile would not let itself go unnoticed for long.  
“Get up, brother! I wish to give you a ceremonial hug!”  
A hug? Sky didn’t do hugs. Everyone knew that. Link doubted he was finally giving him a dose of brotherly compassion, however.  
Link pulled himself up to his feet, his legs nearly dissolving under him. His stomach swung sideways at the sudden change, and he knew he was looking pale.  
Sky opened up his arms, and Link staggered towards him unsteadily. He was half a foot away when he caught his boot on a floorboard and tumbled to the ground. His throat pushed up a splatter of his half-digested breakfast, all over Sky’s fancy silk victor clothes. Link felt better for a brief second; until Sky’s furious stare met his wide grey eyes.  
“How dare a Knighthorn-a Career!-be scared by the Games?” His voice was so low it could have sent tremors through the walls. “The Games are an honour, not something to-“ and here he looked disdainfully at his younger brother’s sick all over his clothes- “-get wimpy over.”  
Link stared into his brother’s face, and, seeing no mercy, tried to babble something apologetically. All that came out was another wave of vomit.  
Sky leaned in very close to Link-Link could feel his hot angry breath in his face-and in a threatening low whisper said-  
“You will come out of those Games alive, Link, or I’ll kill you.” Link’s stomach did another unpleasant shift. “You were always the weakest of Mummy Faron’s children.”  
Link felt the urge to scream about how Minish, the middle Knighthorn brother, had not lasted three days in the Games. But Sky continued in the same deadly tone before he could.  
“You will win. You will survive. And you will make sure you aren’t a disgrace to the family name.”  
Link was so scared it was all he could do to not vomit a third time; as it was he could barely get in a nod before Sky strode off and promised:  
“I’ll make sure the Castle doesn’t see this. Just this once. Once you board the train, you’re on your own.”  
And with that, Sky stalked away, happy to leave his humilitating younger brother in the dark farewell room, steeping in a puddle of his regurgitated breakfast.


	2. The Reapings Part Two-Districts Two and Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reapings in the second and third districts...and we get to see some Ghirafi, I promise!

DISTRICT TWO

Ghirahim reached over and fondled the robes of the beautiful blue Hylian next to him. He had been stalking her for years, staring at the way she’d pirouette with her swords, the way her blue bell of hair was never out of place, never astray. Her eyes stared angrily at him, and swatted his hand away. Ghirahim was offended that she didn’t want to have his glorious soft skin touching her cape. But he also noticed her delightfully cool hand, soft and smooth, like a water glass wet with condensation.  
Ghirahim flashed a wide smile at the audience, his teeth glistening in the noon sun. Next to him, his eternal crush held her chin up, staring the cameras in the face. Ghirahim looked in the cameras’ direction too, just to show he wasn’t afraid. To show her.  
Her name was Fi Hylia, and she was widely considered the best swordswoman in the Careers’ year. She treated it as a dance, twirling and leaping with fencing swords flashing in her hand. His heart ached most desperately every time he saw her, and now-now she stood next to him, in all her calculating, analytical glory. Fi. Darling Fi.

When all the pomp and circumstance had subsided for the time being and Fi and Ghirahim sat backstage, her across from him with her arms crossed. Her face wasn’t exactly stormy, but it was annoyed none the less.  
“Ghirahim.” Her voice was cool and controlled, and it washed over Ghirahim like a cool shower. He basked in it, and nearly missed what she said next.  
“Ghirahim, I believe there’s a ninety percent chance that your feigned infatuation with myself will reduce your effectiveness as a tribute. On the whole this does not bother me, but if we are to forge an alliance in the Games this could hurt me greatly.”  
Ghirahim lounged back in his chair, brown eyes wide and puppy-dog like. “I thought you liked me. This hurts, Fi.”  
Fi rolled her eyes to Skyloft. “Ghirahim, if you don’t stop fooling around I have no objections to murdering you in the Bloodbath-“  
“I thought the Castle liked sob stories,” Ghirahim wheedled, leaning close to Fi, spraying her with hot breath. “I thought the Castle would sponsor sob stories.”  
Fi cocked an eyebrow at him.  
“I thought the Castle audience would lap up a star-crossed lover story,” he continued, drawing his finger along Fi’s jawline. Fi stiffened, and looked as if she wanted to swat him away. Ghirahim didn’t care if she did, because her skin was so smooth…  
“Fi and Ghirahim, great lovers of District Two.”  
A hard whack to Ghirahim’s jaw sent spit flying out of his mouth and his mind reeling. Fi stood above his crumpled form.  
“I am not in love with you, Ghirahim Erinyes,” she snarled, “and I will not put up with this crap to get sponsors. I listened in training, and I know there are ways to catch the Castle’s attention that lie outside of the realm of romantic tomfoolery!”  
Ghirahim stared at her, a simpering look on his face. “How could you say no to this glamourous face?”  
Fi turned on a dime, and marched over to see her “friend,” the tiny Hylian Navi. They were actually carefully veiled rivals, but she didn’t try to push that aspect of their relationship.  
Ghirahim let out a loud, theatrical sigh and went over to his hulking father, the black-skinned red-haired Demise. Demise wagged a finger in his face-not the finger Ghirahim wanted to see thrust in his face at this hour-and murmured, “You leave that girl alone and focus on the Games, Ghirahim. I don’t want to see my son shipped home in a box.”  
Ghirahim rolled his eyes. “Let me have a bit of fun with her, Father. Plus, maybe I’ll distract her.”  
Demise stuck the unpleasant finger directly between Ghirahim’s eyes, causing him to go crosseyed as he tried to stare at it.  
“You’ve seen that girl in training. Nothing distracts Fi Hylia, least of all my son’s shameful attempts at flirting.” Ghirahim squeaked out a response, nodded hastily, and put on a smile. “Yes, Father. Of course, Father. I’ll leave her alone.”  
“Good. Now son, do me favour. Don’t die a fool.”  
“I thought you were going to say, Don’t die.”  
“You’re obviously going to die-Fi’s a million times better than you-but I would at least like you to not be a massive fool while doing it.”  
Ghirahim nodded quickly, and as Demise turned his back, he cast his gaze to Fi. Beautiful, stunning Fi. Now that he had free reign, how could he possibly stay away?  
He puckered at the air, imagining how cool Fi’s lips must be. Thankfully he caught himself before Fi turned around and stared at him contemptuously, pulling back his lips and licking them. He twitched his tongue when Fi turned to look; Fi stared at him like he’d lost his mind.  
“Ghirahim Erinyes, there is a one-hundred percent chance I do not want to see your slithering pink tongue,” she snapped, reaching out to slap him again.  
The stinging in his cheeks lasted all the way to the train.

DISTRICT THREE

Purah fidgeted in her space between Koko and Lasli, anxiously awaiting the tedium of the Reapings to be done. She cast her thoughts longingly towards her drone project, the one shaped like a pot with propellors whirring at the top. She just needed to install the lens and the searchlight, and it would be done. Her Skywatcher drone would earn her an instant scholarship to the Castle’s institute of engineering and technology, a place that had dwelled in her fondest dreams for years.  
Purah didn’t bother to stifle her yawn; not even when Koko and Lasli gave her glares. Koko and Lasli, at least, felt some pity for the tributes; all Purah could think of was the evening of tinkering ahead.  
Purah’s younger sister, Impa, had another view on the matter of reaping.  
Since the day she had turned twelve, Impa had drilled with a quarterstaff and bow in her spare time, determined that the Reaping wouldn’t catch her unprepared. Purah scoffed at her, and simply viewed the Reaping as an annoyance that got in the way of her more important plans.  
The host Kohga (a fat Castle buffoon who was very likely a mass murderer) did his song and dance, Purah twitching even more as his speech went on. Bloody Farore, let him finish already.  
Kohga pulled out a curved yellow fruit-a banana, Purah figured it was-and started eating it skin-on after the speech, and it was all she could do not to groan. Did he even care how much of her time he was wasting?  
Finally, after ten minutes that had felt like ten hours to Purah, Kohga announced that he would be drawing the girl’s name, and bumbled over to the glass ball.  
He fished around for what seemed like an eternity for the impatient Sheikah, before finally pulling out a slip of glossy white paper. He unfolded it and cleared his throat.  
“Purah Tuss!”  
Purah started, and let out a little scream. Koko and Lasli looked down at her with pity wrought in their faces, as if they were looking at a corpse. Then again, maybe they were.  
Purah walked slowly to the front of the crowd, towards the oaf Kohga. Purah was a smaller than average Sheikah, and now more than ever she could feel the imtimidating presence of those on either side of her looming up, craning their necks to get a peek at the new District Three corpse.

Purah didn’t like standing next to Kohga, either. He smelled like overripe bananas and foul body odour, a combination that made her nose reel and her head spin. She also didn’t enjoy seeing him jiggle over to the boys’ pot, reaching in for a paper, creating a crack between his top and pants. Purah thought to herself that seeing a Yiga navel was not something she had wanted to do, nor wanted to do again.  
Kohga finally managed to pull out a boy’s name-and at the same time one of the stage’s spotlights started to plummet.  
“Heads! Heads! Heads!” A Castle technician desperately tried to reach after it, nearly slipping off the scaffolding in the process. Either Kohga didn’t hear the tech or didn’t understand what “Heads” meant, because he stood there reading off the tribute’s name, Sheik Lyra, oblivious to the spotlight until it hit him square in the head.  
A boy of about seventeen suddenly appeared at the side of the stage. Purah jumped about a foot in shock:she was sure that she hadn’t seen him get there, and yet there he was, climbing up onto the stage and giving the crowd a dark look. It was difficult to tell exactly what he looked like as his face was half wrapped in a white scarf, but his red eyes were as Sheikah as one could ask, and his gaze quite frankly sent fear down Purah’s spine. If this boy decided to kill her, she’d be dead before she could scream “Nayru.”  
Sheik’s cold gaze turned to the squished Yiga host, and a sneer flashed across his scarlet eyes. Purah couldn’t blame him, because Kohga had started moaning piteously.  
Sheik let out a rustling sigh, slightly muffled by his scarf, and took his place next to Purah, facing the flashing spotlights and all the glorious pomp and circumstance of the Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently working on the third chapter, don't forget to give kudos and comment if you liked it!!


	3. The Reapings Part Three-Districts 4, 5, and 6

DISTRICT FOUR

Ruto sat backstage, turning her sapphire pendant over and over in her thin, spidery fingers. Champion of Zoras. She craved that title, wanted so desperately to be equals with Mipha, the last Zora champion.  
Assuming that Mipha’s brother, Sidon, didn’t beat her to it.   
He was a tall, intimidating Zora, it was true, but he simply wasn’t as cunning as Ruto. If brawn counted for more than cunning in the Hunger Games, then in Ruto’s mind the honour was gone.  
Ruto glared at Sidon, his pearly smile flashing at the cameras. He was always on, his social act en pointe. Sidon was in fact the greatest heartthrob in the past century of Zoras in Ruto’s opinion, and she knew with a jealous tug that sponsors would be falling on their faces in swooning over his wide smile. As much as Ruto hated to admit it, it even set her heart fluttering-and her heart belonged to a blonde Hylian named Link.  
She hoped Link wouldn’t volunteer this year. Hope was an understatement, actually; she desired deeply to have Link out of the running. This was foolish, she knew; he was one of the best District One male Careers. Of course he’d volunteer.   
Ruto knew that, if it came down to it, she would have to kill Link. She knew it, but she tried so hard to keep denying it.   
Link was sweet. Kind, and gentle; but fierce if he needed it. Ruto also loved his quiet little smiles, and-okay, fine: Ruto loved more or less anything and everything about him.  
“True love,” she whispered to herself, flipping the stone between her fingers. Would the stars cross in their favour?  
Ruto certainly hoped so.

DISTRICT FIVE

Yunobo paced in circles in front of the train station, trying and failing to ward off his increasing anxiety.  
The Sheikah girl next to him fared not much better. She fussed with her hair, with her district token, with her dress-she fussed with more or less everything to keep her mind off the situation at hand.  
Paya and Yunobo didn’t interact at all; they were to anxious to even acknowledge each others’ anxiety. The closest they came was when Paya bumped into Yunobo while he was pacing. Paya frantically apologized, turning more scarlet than a tomato, before rushing off into the corner, all the while nervously babbling something in Sheikah.  
It was a blessed relief when the train came, along with their mentor Gorko; his friendly conversation (as friendly as one can be when he knows he’s talking to two corpses, of course) about the Games negating the necessity of the two interacting.  
Yunobo learned very quickly that absolutely nothing that Gorko could say would calm him, and more importantly that it seemed increasingly likely he wouldn’t make it past the Bloodbath. All Gorko’s talk of suitable weapons, and Paya shaking her head fearfully but determinedly, invoked in him the strong feeling that he had absolutely no way to survive, and was what Gorko kept uncomfortably calling “dead meat” as if he was an army sergeant.  
Yunobo’s thoughts had long since drifted away, while Paya was fixated on Gorko’s lecture on bombardment of the enemy, thinking about what a disappointment he would be to his family, shipped home dead in a wooden box. His heart ached at the idea, but he knew it was the inevitable outcome, unlike Paya, who seemed determined to deny the truth for as long as possible.  
Paya was in truth the granddaughter of a woman named Impaz, a great victor some sixty years ago, and Paya was determined to hold up the family legacy.   
Paya couldn’t fail her grandmother.

DISTRICT SIX

Marin Toronbo stood in a state of shock on the stage, staring out at the crowd with a look of confidence. Or what she assumed was confidence; she was so stunned she had no scale for what was confident or not.  
Her father Tarin was screaming from the crowd of adults, waving his hands and calling off the games. Marin’s stomach tied itself in an uncomfortable knot staring at him. She loved her father dearly, but she knew that his attempts were futile. He was much too old to volunteer for her; at least twenty-five years too old. He was a man. And, the Castle rarely paid heed to the heartbroken babbling of a grieving father whose daughter had been reaped for the Games.  
Marin was an only child. Her mother had died in childbirth, leaving her young father heartbroken as her sole parent. Tarin had never remarried, for he had never found a woman whom he felt for the same way as he had felt for Marin’s mother.   
Marin’s mother had been a heartbreaker, it was true; no one could understand why she had fallen for Marin’s father; with his large nose and greasy black hair.   
The fluffy pink Kaysa, the district’s host, gave the man a look of pity, but moved to the boys’ glass orb without a second thought. Marin wanted to scream at how little Kaysa cared for the people of District Six, but Kaysa cleared her throat, giving her the time to realize how improper (and very likely suicidal) that could be.  
“Zant el’Twili!” Kaysa shrilly cried out to the audience, scanning the gathered crowd like the proverbial fox with the mouse.  
A tall Twili boy clawed his way to the front, a coy grin on his face-was he licking his lips? Marin let a little shudder fall down her spine.   
Zant brought himself to stand with Marin, his wide pale amber eyes regarding the audience with a maniacally eager stare.   
Marin could practically hear the money clinking in the Twili vendors’ hands.  
Zant leaned over to Marin, and gave a tiny little laugh. Marin had enough sense to pull her thin blue linen dress away from his clawing grey hands, and she gave him a level, contemptuous stare.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reapings- Districts 7, 8 and 9

DISTRICT SEVEN  
Saria watched in agony as the little Maca trudged forward to the stage, her teeth grinding in the unfairness of it all as the little korok walked towards her death, casting anxious glances across the crowd.  
Maca was Saria’s friend. She remembered vividly all the languid summers’ afternoons they had spent together in the forests, before they were old enough to pitch in. Saria remembered with a pang Maca’s jokes that came thick and fast while they were at work.  
Saria was hardly impulsive at all by Kokiri standards. Usually the race as a whole were jumpy, quick to assume anything, and generally acted without thinking; but Saria prided herself on her logic, and her patience.  
Which is why Saria was shocked most of all when she jumped out into the aisle, waved her hands, and screamed for the host Hestu to stop.  
“I volunteer as tribute!”  
Maca let out a hushed gasp.  
The hushed gasp was quickly replaced with anger.  
“Yoi!” she called to Saria, staring her straight in the eye. “Saria, what are you doing?”  
“I’m not leaving this to you, Maca,” Saria said nervously, quickly trotting up to the stage. She held Maca’s hand quickly, rubbed it comfortingly, and went to stand next to the large broccoli-headed Hestu.

Hestu flashed Saria an apologetic look, and reached into the male dish.  
“Mido Swamp!”  
Saria let out an inaudible groan. Mido. He was only thirteen, yet according to him District Seven revolved around him.  
The tart Mido stalked out into the aisle, his face contorted in a most unbecoming scowl. Saria couldn’t prevent her stomach from doing a little writhe, as she thought about how quickly the poor Kokiri would die in the Games if he didn’t keep his hubris in check.  
Naturally Mido did a bit of scowly showboating; he puffed out his chest and proclaimed to the audience that he was going to cream the other kids and come out Victor.  
Saria didn’t know whether she wanted to punch him in the face or cry.

DISTRICT EIGHT

Agitha Phasmid pulled out the last jar, home to a golden ant.  
She wiped a stray tear off her cheek before she twisted open the lid. If she couldn’t be free in her final hours, at least her bugs could.  
As she watched the sun sparkle on the back of the golden ant, she let out a wavy breath that she had forgotten she had been holding. Chances were almost certain that neither she nor her district partner, a weasely boy named Beedle Barding, would make it out alive. Never before had a twelve-year old, and Agitha could not hold to the hope that she’d make history.  
She was helped even less by the fact that she was just a poor, orphan child who’d spent her entire life working on the cotton plantations while Beedle was the eldest child of what had to be the richest merchant family in District 8. Agitha remembered gazing through the window of their shop any time she had an excuse to walk past it, ogling in awe at the pale silks and intricate glass. For a girl who lived in a small shack with no one but her bugs and the nasty older girls for company, who had to share virtually everything except for her hard, lumpy cot, Beedle’s family’s shop had looked pretty damn close to heaven for Agitha.  
Unfortunately, that meant that while Beedle might get a few pity sponsors, she would get close to none without pulling some sort of divine Farore’s Wind out of her back pocket. A tiny girl from the cotton plantations of District 8? Forget it. Not even eternally optimistic Agitha could kid herself for long.  
According to legend, District 8 had once been a peaceful realm known as East Necluda. She had always loved listening to the tales of what the district had once been. But that could not help her now. Now, all she could do was hope.  
How much hope would it take to save her?

DISTRICT 9

The silence was very uncomfortable. Groose, the meaty male tribute, was far too occupied with slicking back his hair with some sort of nasty chemical. Groose had long been trading on the black market for the stuff, and it was well known in the district that he would trade almost anything for the stuff.  
Sitting across from him, wearing an expression of deep discomfort at her present situation, was Ilia, casting uneasy eyes around the room.  
It was the unpleasant interval between the tearful farewells and boarding the train, when the tributes were given enough time for their death sentence to sink in.  
“Were your folks sad?” Ilia immediately regretted speaking when Groose shot her a nasty glare. If it had been anyone else, it would have likely been in heartbreak after saying goodbye. For Groose, it was almost certainly because she interrupted his beauty regimen.  
“Have anyone special you had to say goodbye to?”  
Groose shot Ilia another nasty glare. Ilia didn’t know it, but Groose was painfully single; he had a massive unrequited crush on the King’s daughter, Zelda.  
Since his family owned a massive grain plantation and made a comparative fortune on Tabantha Wheat, it was a lot less far-fetched for him than many; however, that still didn’t mean she was at all in her league. King Rhoam and his inbred clan was untouchable by the majority of the populus.  
“I had to say goodbye to all the children in the home I take care of. Poor Malo couldn’t bear to see me go.”  
Actually, Malo was thrilled to see the back of Ilia, but she kept telling herself that Malo would mourn her. Mourn her, and not run away to start a merchant business.  
Groose stuck his nose in the air. “My family is confident that I will be the next victor in the Hylia Games.”  
“That’s…nice.” Ilia didn’t want to see the Careers this year. They usually scared her, and they’d likely make Groose wet his pants.  
“There’s a house in the Victor’s Village, right next to Teba, with my name on it.”  
Groose’s overconfidence and hubris made Ilia very worrie


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tributes make their way to the Castle on the infamous train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late updates but I have several archived chapters ready for everyone to read!

~Malon~

MALON HELD THE SLICE OF YELLOW FRUIT up to the light, staring through the translucent flesh.   
“What is this?” she asked the room aloud. She was used to apples, and pears; sensible fruits not at all like this gauzy slice.  
“That’s a lemon,” snapped Cotera, casting annoyed glances at the fruit. More accurately, at Malon’s dirty hand. “Are you sure you don’t want a nice shower-“  
“Naw, I had one this morning.”  
“Obviously before you did…whatever you did to get yourself so dirty.” Cotera sniffed loudly.  
“I worked on a ranch. Dirt is a fact of life.” Would this lemon thing be sweet? Tangy? Bitter?  
Next to her, the little Rito boy was stuffing a long strip of flaky white fish into his mouth with a very pleased expression on his face. Kass was from a much higher class background than Malon, but even he was shocked by the clean white fish. Beef and pork were second only to bread and butter in District 10; Malon had eaten little else in her life.

Without further ado, Malon folded over the crepe-paper thin slice of fruit and took a massive bite of the thin pulp and let her eyes close to savour it.  
One eye promptly reopened halfway, and her mouth twisted up into a contorted line. The “lemon” was the sourest thing she had ever let hit her tongue, sourer by far than the buttermilk she drank on special occasions, sourer even than the green apples they fed to the pigs. She had eaten one once on a dare from Ingo, the older boy at the ranch.  
Kass’ eyes lit up in joy at the horrible face Malon made. The poor Rito had had a very bad day, Malon knew, but she would have appreciated it a great deal if he could find joy and laughter in anything else besides the rancid fruit.  
“Lemons are usually used as garnish,” Cotera said dryly, still glaring at Malon’s state of filth. Malon didn’t let these stares pass unnoticed. So what if a bull had gotten away a mere thirty minutes before she had had to go to the Reaping. She hadn’t let him get away, and that’s what mattered. How dirty she had gotten her nice blue linen dress was beside the point.

~Revali~

Kenali forced them to watch the Reapings, which in Revali’s opinion was a blisteringly painful ordeal. He said that they should watch out for the most formidable opponents, but all Revali saw were the most pathetic pack of tributes since…well, he didn’t think they could have possibly done worse.  
There was a pitiful lack of scary Careers. The boy from 1 had to be a joke. Like any Career would look sick at the Reapings. They live for this crap.  
The girl? How she could even function in those heels stumps me.  
There was some sort of demented lover thing going on between Miss and Mr 2, both of whom looked as lame as the boy from 1.  
The girl from 3 looked about nine.  
The sugary smile of Big Bad Zora Boy made me sick to my stomach.  
Mister Goron was not fooling anyone as far as Revali was concerned, he looked too afraid to swat a fly.  
Boy from District 6? Just because you managed to pierce your ear does not make you badass. “Please spare me your stupid face,” Revali catcalled from the couch. He promptly ignored Kenali’s subsequent glare.  
The girl from District 6…well, she wasn’t too bad. Not very scary, it’s true, but…nice.   
This year 7 had a bunch of Kokiri losers.  
The tributes from 8 were so hopeless all he could do was yawn through their Reaping. So what if it annoyed Kenali? It’s not like a couple of kids will pose a threat to him.  
The guy from 9 was so obnoxious with his stupid lick of red hair he almost lost his roast chicken.  
The girl from 10? Did she get the memo that the Castle likes to reap clean people?  
The boy was a silly parrot Rito that looked absolutely terrifying. Please insert an eyeroll into that, because he was anything but.  
The Goron from 12 could have been a good competitor. Could, because he seemed little more than a biscuit on the threat level.  
The girl tribute? The single male Castle citizens will be lining up to sponsor Breast City. She should be embarrassed with herself by how much she showed.  
He felt bad for little Genli, his district partner; she was too young to not be intimidated by this bunch of lumbering fools. She had to be quaking in her skin.  
Well, Revali supposed, it’s up to me to protect her.

~Link~

It was a shame how good the roast chicken was, because Link’s stomach did not want to eat one bite.  
Riju loved the stuff; Link could have sworn her two drumsticks were gone in under ten seconds.  
Link, on the other hand, stared at the roast bird, watching it go cold.  
“Eat up, brother! You need your strength!” Sky put on a fake smile, pushing a platter of mushy peas towards Link. Link’s stomach did an uneasy flip-flop and he looked away.  
“Let’s not replay what happened after the Reaping, brother.” Sky leaned in close to Link so only he could hear what words rode the hot breath he spat into his younger brother’s ear.  
Link pulled away with a scowl, and forced down a spoonful of mushy peas. His throat tried to prevent it from sliding down, but Link’s stubborn will held out for once.   
“It’s exciting to finally be here!” Riju let a large grin creep across her face as she held up a third chicken drumstick. The skin hanging from her teeth made Link’s stomach churn slightly, but the peas thankfully stayed down.  
“With any luck, you’ll be our new champion.” Urbosa, the other mentor, ruffled Riju’s hair affectionately.   
Link gave Urbosa a cold stare over a spoon of peas. Unfortunately, he was distracted from his intense disdain by the entry of Tingle. He spouted some more of his “Kooloo-limpah!” rubbish and sat uncomfortably between Sky and Link. As much as Link and Sky did not get along, Link knew for sure he would rather sit next to his brother than the greasy green sack of body fat that was Tingle.  
Link managed to choke down two more spoonfuls of peas before Tingle’s body odour wafted up his nostrils, rocking the already unsteady boat of his stomach. If we have deodorant in District 1, surely they have it in the Castle.   
Urbosa, Sky and Riju kept on with some sort of animated conversation about swords, with Tingle inputting his silly remarks every time there was even the slightest gap in the conversation. Link wanted to listen, to input-he liked swords, too-but Tingle’s shrill pipes pierced straight through his eardrums, and the damp stench of sweat was overwhelming. The overweight Castle Hylian was ruining what could have been the last nice moment of Link’s life, and he resented him for it.  
When Tingle finally hopped up and announced he was to be taking a bubbly shower, Link let out a sigh of relief despite himself.  
Damn escort, ruining my supper.

~Sheik~


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope I'm not boring everyone with the prologue bits! I continue the slightly lengthy journey to the arena...

~Sheik~  
Purah wouldn’t sit still.  
They were less than ten minutes away from the Castle, and Sheik could swear he had not seen the Sheikah girl be still for more than five seconds, tops. Granted, her energy made him feel tired enough to want to take a night’s sleep after twenty minutes of trying to make heads or tails of it; she definitely had more than her fair share.  
Sheik had long since taken to lying down on the fluffy bed, watching Purah try fruitlessly to tinker with the bedside lamp. He dryly noted that the only productive thing that had come out of it was the fact that the light bulb would no longer turn on when Purah flipped the switch.  
Sheik tried to ignore her, to focus on his hobby-poetry. He toyed with the words in his mind, flipping them around, trying to fit them in a way that sounded right with the last song he had composed for his harp, Bolero of Fire. He plucked words from midair and shifted and slid them to fit. Eventually he was fairly satisfied-  
“Why are you moving your hands like that? Are you invalid or something?”  
His heartrate spiked through the roof when he opened his eyes to see a face with purple glasses crowned with a tall swirl of white hair not one inch from his face.  
“BAH!” Sheik jumped back so hard he smacked his head on the headboard, causing the back of his head to throb in pain. His head spun slightly, and he needed to squint to get a good look at the girl. Her purple streak bled into her white hair as he struggled to focus.  
“At any rate, Dorian says we’re at the Castle now,” Purah said to Sheik casually while studying her long magenta nails. She didn’t seem to give a damn how much she had scared him.  
“Could you have waited for me to open my eyes?”  
“When were you going to?”  
Sheik let out a groan as he pulled himself up to a ninety-degree sitting position. “When I was finished of my poem.”  
“Is that why you were waving your arms? Were you doing some sort of ancient poetry meditation?”  
Sheik sighed. He didn’t know he had been waving his arms around that much.  
He pulled himself up off the bed, ignoring the throbbing in his skull, and pushed past Purah, winding his scarf back up around his face. He was out the door and in the Castle before the eternally bouncing Purah could even react. 

~Saria~  
Before she knew what was going on, her hair had already been steadfastly gelled into some sort of dome around her head that smelled strongly of alcohol and false lavender.  
The Hylian stylists whirled around Saria, giggling about some sort of romance program over her head as if she wasn’t there at all. They largely ignored her, even when she started coughing from the acrid fumes of the bright green nail polish.   
The stylists may have been ignoring Saria, but Saria couldn’t take her eyes off them. Her eyes bounced back and forth between the stylist with his magenta hair piled in some sort of elaborate do on his head and the stylist with her puffy lavender lips in a pale blue face. The third was just as shocking, with his yellow lipstick, purple eyes and blue eyeshadow; but since he was working on Saria’s hair she didn’t have much of a chance to gawp.  
“The girl has such filthy nails,” twittered the girl with the blue face, pretending to swoon as she scraped a hard strip of dark brown dirt out from underneath Saria’s fingernails.  
“And her hair! It’s a marvel there wasn’t a whole tree hiding in there.” Saria could feel the yellow lipstick man waving his hands in her hair.  
“It’s such a shame we’re always stuck with the little kids from Seven, what I wouldn’t give for one of those handsome Four Zoras-“  
“Or the Gerudo from One. Imagine how fine we could get one of those chicks looking!”  
“All we get this year is Miss Twighair.” Saria let out an angry grunt but the magenta-haired stylist tapped his fingers across her lips.   
“Keep silent, your lips will split if you keep talking.”  
Saria’s lips were chapped, but having the man’s stinky false-jasmine-smelling fingers rubbed across her lips at the exact point at which she could taste the rank scent in her mouth made her annoyed. 

The outfit the designer fit her in wasn’t much better. It was red velvet, had a strange twist to it, and rubbed up against her skin in a most unsatisfying way. Saria wished dearly she could have been at home, in a nice comfortable tunic, working alongside Maca. So what if the food was good-there was plenty of lovely foods in District 7, and the venison was at least fresh-caught. There were no strange people with vile soaps, or velvety dresses.

Unfortunately, there was still Mido.

No matter what Saria did, it seemed as if she couldn’t escape him and his hot temper.

It was a painful ten minutes on top of the float, listening to his bellyaching about everything. He was dressed in a velvet suit, which was quite possibly one of the least uncomfortable tribute costumes in the history of the Games, but it still warranted a wave of complaints from the tart Kokiri.

“They don’t have the right to stuff me in this itchy suit! I don’t see them clamouring to wear this silly stuff.”  
Saria wisely didn’t point out that the stylists would kill to have clothing far itchier than Mido’s suit.  
“And having us on parade! Do the idiots in District 10 gawp at the cattle before they go to the slaughterhouse?”  
Saria felt an uncomfortable twinge in her stomach. As much as he was usually full of hot air, Mido had a point.

They were going to the slaughterhouse.

~Ghirahim~

Ghirahim strutted past the chariots with his scarlet feather cape fluttering behind him. He tossed his bleach white waves of hair around his head, casting glances around hoping someone could see how positively radiant he was.  
His tongue curled around his lips of its own accord, the minty lipgloss burning through his tongue.   
The little Kokiri girl from 7, looking positively sparkling in her twisty velvet dress, flashed a glare in Ghirahim’s direction. He could not resist tossing his hair and licking his lips again, sending flirtatious smiles in her direction. She was as sweet as sugar, that one.   
Ghirahim felt a flutter of disappointment as the girl looked away disgustedly-how dare she turn down such a fine specimen?  
The prep crew had perhaps had a bit too much fun with Ghirahim, and they had perhaps made his mascara a bit too thick. Ghirahim was in general very pro heavy mascara so he didn’t notice until his angel in a blue feather cape clicked up beside him in high stilettos and decided to insult him.  
“It seems as if the stylists found you more attractive with your eyes ringed with that black.”  
Ghirahim twitched his eyebrow. It kept twitching, a tic that would not be ignored.  
“I think what little attractiveness you had is overwhelmed by the sheer amount of pastes on your face.”  
Ghirahim felt his face heat up, his eyelid twitch faster. How dare she insult me like this?  
“They go more crazy on us Careers every year,” she continued, ignoring fully Ghirahim’s state of standing on the brink of rage.  
Ghirahim whirled out in front of Fi.  
“Do you know how annoyed it makes me when you insult my face?” His hands clenched into dense fists at his sides, his dark brown eyes boiling with hardly suppressed rage. “Do you know how it makes me feel?”  
“Clearly unstable,” Fi remarked dryly as she climbed onto the float. Ghirahim, however, didn’t follow suit-black spots swam across his vision and without thinking he ripped a flimsy metal bar off the side of the District 2 float.   
“I don’t know why I bother with you philistines,” he shouted, his angry tones bouncing off the steel roof of the garage and into the present tributes’ ears. “None of you are worth the time of the great Ghirahim! None! I’ll be Victor this time in four days.”  
Fi stared down at him. “I do not think that is what your father said.”  
Ghirahim felt the oncoming tide of rage bubble over and with a fierce, animalistic hiss, he hurled the metal bar behind him. He heard a panicked gasp and the clang of it hitting a float.  
“Can’t you people take a hint that I wanted that bar to hit you? Preferably in the skull,” he snarled, whirling around to see the Sheikah boy from 3 give the bar a weak toss to the ground.  
“The Castle doesn’t approve of one who tries to snuff their equal’s flame prior to the day of reckoning,” he said in a soft, melodic tenor.  
“Hylian please!” spat Ghirahim, feeling the tic coming back at his annoyance that the boy couldn’t speak in a normal manner.  
“I beg your pardon?” Above his snowy white silk scarf, his creamy blonde eyebrow cocked.   
“I don’t understand people who speak in riddles all the flaming time!” he continued, leaning in to the boy’s face with his tongue loose in the air.  
“The wrath of the royal family will come crashing down on the one who cannot quell his temper before he is sentenced to the fight.”  
Ghirahim leaned in over the boy’s shoulder, spraying hot furious breath over the side of his face.  
“If you can’t speak in a way everyone else can understand, I will personally make it so that I am the one who slits your throat.”  
The boy grunted and backed away. Fi’s annoyed face loomed around the side of the float.   
“Leave Sheik alone, we are not permitted to kill anyone yet.”  
Ghirahim stalked off the float in a huff, and stood next to Fi.  
“How in Din’s name do you keep everyone straight?” he asked, highly annoyed by the combination of her and the Sheikah boy.  
“Simple, Master Ghirahim. I pay attention.”  
She let out a huff and looked in the other direction while Ghirahim tried to ignore his left eyelid, which was whipped up into a frenzy of tics.


	7. Chapter 7

~Link~  
“LINKY!”  
Ruto careened off the float and wrestled Link to the ground in a storm of affection. She pulled his ponytail (she usually did that with his hat instead but he wasn’t wearing it), rubbed his nose, and showered him with what felt like a million kisses.  
Link liked Ruto, and they were good friends; but he was not fond of her shows of affection. They made him deeply uncomfortable, and reminded him of the Games’ host Tera, who had a reputation of cuddling all the handsome young male tributes. That, Link dreaded almost as much as going into the Arena. He didn’t want to be snogged by Castle snobs.  
“Linky, you’ve left me waiting for so long,” Ruto said, her lip forming a pronounced pout.  
“Linky, you’re so dashing in your little costume.” At this she pulled the red silk knee of his pants, giggling. That was another thing about Ruto that got on Link’s nerves-her almost incessant giggling.  
“Ruto,” Link managed, pausing for a while as he tried to gather his thoughts. “It’s nice to see you.”  
“Shame we’re both in the Games,” Ruto said, running her fingers along her chin in thought. “Oh, well. We might as well get as much time in as we can before the Games claims one of us.”  
Link’s stomach sank again, and did a little backflip at the thought of the Games. You’re a Career, for Farore’s sake. Stop getting so jiggly!  
“Well, we can still fight together,” Ruto mused. “To the last breath, Link-Time Knighthorn!”  
“To the last breath,” mumbled Link, trying to not think of his fancy pork chop and couscous supper.  
Ruto leaned in and laid a sloppy, wet, scaly kiss on his lips. Link fought the urge to take a napkin or his silk handkerchief and wipe his lips clean. He even reached to his waistline subconsciously before remembering that the prep crew had taken it away.  
Ruto helped Link up, her arms wrapped around him. He could feel his ribs being slowly crushed by the Zora’s unassuming muscles, but elected to not make a point of it. Ruto would get very sulky and probably tell him to take responsibility. For what, he was never sure; but she said it to him all the time.  
“Can you help me onto my float?” Ruto put on a sugary smile that rent Link’s stomach with guilt.  
“Sure,” he said, and Ruto promptly sat on the ground, crossing her legs so her fins were laid out flat on the cold concrete floor.  
“I can’t pick you up when you’re sitting down,” Link said, staring at her in confusion.  
“Try,” she said firmly, staring right back into Link’s grey eyes.  
Link leaned over and with a grunt tried to lift the Zora over his head. His arms, however, gave out and Ruto crashed to the floor.  
“You think you can drop the Zora tribute on the floor? Take responsibility and pick me up, you silly Tektite.”  
Link growled at being called Tektite, and succeeded at heaving the princess up onto the float, though quite dishevelled. In fact, she looked more like a Tektite in her shimmering blue silk dress, wrinkled at every seam, then Link had ever looked.  
“You wrinkled my dress!” Ruto’s voice hit the pitch of a whine, but then she looked Link straight in the eye and tapped his chin affectionately. “Thank you, cutie pie. I’ll see you tonight after the parade.”  
And with that, Link walked away to stand next to Riju.

~Revali~

An hour of being paraded around the Castle like some prize egg-laying Cucco did nothing for Revali’s growing annoyance.  
By the time Revali was back in his room, he was sitting on the edge of his bed grinding his beak in frustration.  
“You need to appeal to the sponsors,” Kenali lectured, pacing back and forth in front of Revali.  
“Why should I? We all know I’m going to blow half the tributes out of the water at the Bloodbath,” Revali sneered, examining his talons idly. His beak, however, kept grinding, sending jolts of pain into his temples.  
“Do you know the meaning of the word ‘hubris?’” Kenali leaned into Revali’s face.  
“I don’t know why it should matter.”  
“‘Hubris’ means pride. Foolish pride. The kind that can get the strongest of tributes killed.” Kenali started pacing again.  
“What kills the strongest of tributes is lack of faith.”  
Kenali snorted. “In some cases, yes. In your case, I think we have too much pride.”  
Revali stood up very quickly, knocking a platoon of small colourful pillows to the floor. “You think I should start believing falsehoods? Like that idiot of a Hylian from 1 is better? I won’t lie to myself, Kenali!” He spat on the pillows at the end of his sentence, and punctured a bright turquoise square one with his talon, sending fluff scuttling onto the hardwood floor.  
“You will conduct yourself with some tact while you’re under my tutelage, Revali Aquilen!” Kenali sharpened his tone. His amber eyes narrowed fiercely, met in equal flames and fury by Revali’s green irises.  
“Tact won’t win the Games,” Revali snarled, circling Kenali sharply. Kenali proceeded to imitate him, the two walking dead silent in a circle for five minutes until Revali broke it with a sharp verbal blade.  
“If you expect me to listen and walk into a sprung trap, know that I’m not that stupid.”  
Kenali briefly reeled back, stinging from Revali’s words. Revali pressed his advantage, his talons clicking as he inched towards the older Rito.  
“How many tributes have you trained to victory?” He continued, his voice deadly quiet, a sneer lancing across his beak.  
“You dare question my authority?” Kenali pulled himself together, only to be undone completely by Revali’s next words.  
“I don’t want to end up like those poor Rito children you led to the slaughterhouse last year! I don’t want to end up dead like my sister!”  
Kenali reddened. He spluttered, attempting to get something, anything out as a retort, but it was hopeless. Revali had found the upper hand, and he milked it to its full power.  
“I think in light of that little accident, we’ll use my strategy,” he said, snapping his feathers in Kenali’s face. Seeing the older Rito stricken with terror and shame made his heart flutter a little with adrenaline.  
“Are we clear?” Revali turned sharply away, and threw the inquiry over his shoulder.  
“Yes.” Kenali sighed.  
“Excellent. I will report to the training hall tomorrow-when I feel like it, of course.”  
He stalked out towards the showers, leaving the Rito mentor stunned and struggling with the burden of his past in his wake.

~Daruk~  
Daruk had never seen such a wide variety of weapons. Where he was from, there were pickaxes and stone smashers-anything else was regarded as unnecessary. But here—here was a grand array of everything from halberds to knives, from whips to darts, from starknives to nunchuks.  
Daruk found his feet taking him to a station on edible plants. Don’t dwell on weapons, Gortram had told him. You have enough expertise in that area to do for now. What you need to focus on is the technical stuff. Knot tying, water distilling-that sort of thing.  
The weapon stations, however, were clearly the hotspots-the girl from 2 was impaling a dummy with knife after knife, with increasingly deadly precision-with the edible plants stand looking a little forlorn. The only person there was the boy from 3, dressed in close-fitting black clothes and a light silver scarf wound around his chin, dropped around his nose to let him sniff the mushrooms.  
Daruk slid into the booth, and picked up a purple fungus just as Sheik-that was his name, right?-put it down. He passed it under his nose, trying to detect any odour.  
“That’s a rushroom. They don’t have any scent,” Sheik said, giving him a funny look.  
“They typically grow on mountainsides.” The korok behind the booth started bouncing up and down, excited to share her knowledge with another tribute.  
“Why are they here?”  
The korok stared confusedly at him for a time. Sheik did as well, until a quick muttered “oh, right,” and went back to his fluorescent yellow ‘shroom.  
“It said, ‘edible foods,’” Daruk continued, puzzled. “I thought we were going to be examining different kinds of shale-“  
“Typically Hylians and Sheikah eat plants,” Sheik said quickly, passing over a tough silver fungus in favour of a strange, spiky red fruit.  
“This stuff is for eating?” Daruk said incredulously. “It looks all weird and spongey-“  
“They’re mushrooms,” the korok said slowly. When Daruk was clearly not getting it, she added- “They’re fungi that most of us enjoy eating.”  
“Fungi? You eat fungi?” Daruk stared at the bounty of items, and noticed that there wasn’t a rock to be found.  
“Among other things, yes,” Sheik said briskly, nibbling a piece of the spiky fruit.  
“Are there any booths where you tell us what rocks are inedible?”  
Sheik spat out the white flesh.  
The korok gave him a strange look. “I’d think rocks are all the same.”  
Daruk frowned. As if he’d ever stomach schist.  
“Obviously plants aren’t all the same. Why would you think it was true of rocks?”  
The korok started. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean-“  
Daruk didn’t like seeing the poor korok upset. “Don’t worry, little buddy,” he said, clapping her on the back. “I’m not concerned. Now, I’ll just head over to the knot tying station-“  
“Where Natie isn’t, so you can stop trying to throw her back out,” Sheik said briskly, weighing a hot pepper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now! I hope you enjoyed and if you did please let me know in the comments!


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